


Every Angel is Terrifying

by LadyofShalott



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-14
Updated: 2012-08-14
Packaged: 2017-11-12 04:19:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/486607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyofShalott/pseuds/LadyofShalott
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel terrifies the brothers for different reasons</p>
            </blockquote>





	Every Angel is Terrifying

**Author's Note:**

> This was written in 2008 when Castiel was still pretty new to us all. 
> 
> These characters belong to the Supernatural creators, and no copyright infringement is intended

_Ein jeder engel ist schrecklich  
\--Rilke_

 

Dean figures that any being who could reach into the depths of hell and yank him out bodily ought to scare the hell out of him, figuratively speaking. In most cases, a self-preservation instinct forged in fire and finely honed through years of hunting doesn’t allow fear, because fear is weakness. Dean fears Castiel in a way he has never feared anything in his life, and he hates the helpless feeling the angel instills in him.

He doesn’t know what Castiel’s motive for dragging him out of hell could possibly be. He never really believed in God before, so the whole notion that God has work for him only serves to make his head hurt, like someone is trying to hammer a square peg into a round hole somewhere deep within his brain. He supposes he should at least keep an open mind toward the idea, because up until a few weeks ago, he didn’t believe in angels either. Something about Castiel makes him believe, even though if pressed he won’t admit it.

Dean looks at himself in the bathroom mirror in the latest dingy motel room. Somewhere in the universe, he thinks, a death dirge is playing for the overhead fluorescent bulb, which looks like it’s going to give up the ghost any day now. Amid the mirror’s cobwebby lacework where the silver backing has either cracked or gone completely, he sees a man who looks like he hasn’t had a decent night’s sleep in weeks. His too-pale skin serves only to highlight the dark crescent moons under tired eyes and the sprinkling of freckles across his nose and cheeks. He needs a haircut.

He has managed to avoid looking at the handprints thus far. They don’t burn, although they probably should have when they were angry red welts. Actually, for some reason, since they’ve been there, they’ve felt cooler than the rest of his skin. Dean isn’t sure why, but he has a theory. He’s pretty sure that he was burning when Castiel touched him, that the angel’s hands were the only relief he felt from the fire. The prints have faded now, more pink than red, like scar tissue forming at the site of a brand. Still, they may as well be a neon sign, proclaiming “MINE” in ten foot tall red letters. He’s sure they won’t fade completely; rather, they’ll silver over like scars. They’ll always be with him. He knows this with absolute certainty. This is Castiel’s way of teaching him faith, subtle and twisted though it may be. 

Sometimes Dean dreams, that is, when he actually sleeps. In his dreams, he is facing an army of demons. Behind him is an army of angels and hunters. Between them is his brother, and Sammy’s tired, he can feel it. He’s so tired of fighting – it’s there in his eyes. Dean is afraid that Sam’s going to give up. He feels Castiel’s hands on his arms then, and his wings come around Dean, enfolding him like a shield. He has never felt safer. In that moment, John is there, arms wrapping around Sam, guiding him from the center of the battlefield toward the angels. 

In the mirror, Dean thinks he caches a fleeting glimpse of his father. He closes his eyes, willing the tears not to come. He is not at all surprised when they do.

He opens his eyes at the feel of hands on his arms and the ghostly brush of unseen wing feathers against his cheek. He meets the angel’s eyes in the mirror. Castiel is a warrior, but with Dean, he is oddly gentle, almost as if he is afraid of breaking him. Life has not been gentle with Dean, and he doesn’t say anything to Castiel, but he’s pretty sure he broke a long time ago.

“You’re tired,” Castiel says softly, the words little more than a warm breath. “You aren’t sleeping enough.”

“The dreams won’t let me.”

“They’re only dreams, Dean.”

“I hope.” 

“Stop torturing yourself.”

Dean snorts softly and turns to face Castiel. Even in this form he’s so beautiful that it almost hurts to look at him. The thought crosses his mind that the sight of him in his true form strikes people blind because humans can’t comprehend or process that sort of beauty. He rests his head on Castiel’s shoulder, exhaustion finally catching up with him.

“Come lie down,” Castiel murmurs. “I’ll stay with you until you sleep.”

Dean obediently lets himself be led to his bed, casting a glance at Sam’s empty one.

“Sam is fine,” Castiel assures him before worry takes over. “I don’t approve of the company he’s keeping, but he’s fine.”

When dean lies down, Castiel pulls the covers up and tucks them around his shoulders. He sits on the bed at Dean’s side and sings softly in a language that Dean can’t understand, but strangely, recognizes.

“I used to do this when you were a child. You’ve always had trouble sleeping…and nightmares.”

“That was you?” Dean asks sleepily.

Castiel nods, smiling slightly. 

“Stay,” Dean whispers, and the need in his voice frightens him. “You always left. Stay this time.”

“Dean—“

“If you’re here, I know you’re safe. If you’re out there… you’re always telling me about your brothers dying in battle.” 

Castiel doesn’t quite understand the look of terror in Dean’s eyes, but he relents. “I’ll stay if you promise to sleep.” He takes off his coat, folds it, and drops it over the bedside chair before returning to his previous position.

“I’ll sleep if you promise to be here when I wake up.”

“I promise. Even though a few short weeks ago, you would have been glad to be rid of me.”

“A few weeks ago, I didn’t know who you were…and some part of me thought you were going to kill me. Or take me back to hell. Or…something. And you were a bossy SOB.”

“Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“Go to sleep.” 

 

When Dean wakes to sunlight streaming through the windows, Castiel is still there, resting. His arm is draped around Dean as if it belongs there, right hand resting over Dean’s heart. This is why Castiel terrifies Dean. He still doesn’t believe he was worth yanking out of hell, and he’s never believed he deserves anyone’s love. His life has followed a predictable pattern with only two rules – kill demons, protect Sam at all costs. Dean has never been important or special. He has been a soldier in this ongoing war that nobody who isn’t a hunter has a clue about. Castiel, though, makes him feel as though he may actually be more than a soldier in some anti-demon battalion. He isn’t sure when Castiel and love started to occupy the same territory in his mind, but he’s pretty certain it was somewhere around the first time that the mere mention of his name, or even the generic “angel”, triggered fight-or-flight and made him feel like he was going to jump out of his skin.

Castiel scares him because he makes Dean think of things he can’t have – dangerous things like love and stability and a life that doesn’t involve hunting. He makes him feel safe, and that’s terrifying, because as far as Dean is concerned, there is no such thing as safe, and letting yourself be lulled into thinking you’re safe is only going to get you killed. Still, though, just once he’d love to sleep through the night without waking up to some slight noise, instantly on alert and ready to annihilate some demon ass, only to find out that the noise was only a mouse creeping around whatever shitty excuse for a motel room they’re occupying that night.  
It is nearly noon when Sam staggers in, bleary-eyed and rumpled, as if he slept in his clothes and his body hasn’t quite caught up with his barely-awake mind. Dean doesn’t ask where Sam spent the night, nor with whom. He doesn’t want to know. 

Sam eyes Castiel warily, as if he is a serpent that might bite if provoked. Castiel, in deference to one unaccustomed to his ways, stands and gathers his overcoat from the bedside chair and walks to the door. Dean knows that he is leaving; is just as certain that his angel will turn up again when Sam leaves in the night and Dean is alone, thinking too much. He follows Castiel outside, where once again the angel’s hands find the marks on his arms, reigniting cold fire only briefly. Their farewell kiss is chaste, only because Dean isn’t expecting it. His eyes close at the faint brush of wing against his skin, and when he opens them, Castiel is gone. He swallows his disappointment and rejoins Sam in their shared room. 

Sam eyes Dean for a few moments. He can’t quite put his finger on what has changed, but something is definitely different where his brother is concerned. The angel obviously has something to do with it, and Sam hopes that Castiel isn’t going to lead his brother down a path that leads to disaster. There are moments these days when he sees peace in Dean’s eyes – peace for the first time since their mother died – and he can’t abandon the hope that it will stay there.

“Be careful, there,” Sam cautions softly, because Castiel frightens him for entirely different reasons.


End file.
